


You're Not Immortal

by alliancedogtags



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Confession, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, but not that hopeless you know, lazy writing because it's been forever since i've written anything good, minor argument, ommund being a hopeless romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:05:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliancedogtags/pseuds/alliancedogtags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things were going nice and easy. And then he vanished for five months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> wow hello, i have not written anything as of late, but i used to write a lot of skyrim fanfiction and then stopped for a while. i downloaded hearthfire the other night for my db myckah and talking to onmund on there reminded me how much i love that doof, and how i'm constantly saddened that there's not a whole lot written for him, so! here's some stuff i wrote late into the night. it was going to go a bit further buuuut, yeah. enjoy!

There was a joke in there, somewhere. Bumping hands, laughing together, sitting in the back of the library and discussing life, smiling fondly at each other across the hall? He’d given up on that stupid flutter his heart did, along with the fact that a warm, inviting grin from the Imperial picked up his stomach and crumpled it in a tight fist.

And then he vanished for five months. Onmund’s nose went deeper into the book every day that passed. He could recite how to cast a fire spell word for word, and had definitely taken a beating helping J’zhargo test out his new scrolls. Studying. Because that was what he wanted to be doing.

Oh. Wrong train of thought.

Onmund scrubbed his fingers over his brow, letting out a gentle sigh. The carefully inked words on the page were at an entirely different location in his mind, to the point where he wondered why he was still continuing to read it. Yawning, the young mage forked his fingers through his hair, twisting them in the dark locks and leaning forward to rest his head on his arms. The flame of the candle danced, the ward over the door to his room blocking the light from leaking out into the hallway. Flipping the parchment between his fingers, the mage simply sat there, hunched over at his desk, and thought.

He thought about shared wine bottles in front of the hearth, the way that Aerion smiled with heavy-lidded eyes, the warmth in his chuckle when he talked about his next story -- god only knew how he had the time to write while out here in Skyrim -- and how he’d hesitated and hadn’t answered Onmund’s question about who his muse was. Of patching up Aerion’s hands, which he was very good at damaging when practicing destruction skills, or the way the snow stuck in his messy, short hair, how cherry his nose was after he’d spent his short period of time standing up on the upper level walkways, of that Imperial accent.

“Falling asleep on your books there, Onmund?” Speak of the accent. Long, bow-calloused fingers tapped at the wooden surface of his desk, tracing a whorl in the dark brown. For a brief second Onmund watched the crack of the fingerless leather gauntlets around his knuckles, before turning to look the rest of the way up at the Dragonborn, donned in his College robes. Melted snow dampened his hair, cheeks a warm red and grin, as always, inviting. Onmund frowned at the scar that nicked his upper lip, one that hadn’t been there before. Knowing what the mage was looking at, Aerion lifted a hand to momentarily wipe across his mouth, as though he could scrub away the silver line etched into his skin.

“Been a long time since you’ve been around, my friend,” Onmund responded and sat up, feeling the tug at his cheeks when he broke into a smile, ignoring the flutter in his chest.

“I’ve been meaning to come back sooner. I got… caught up.” Aerion’s mouth, for a fleeting second that he could barely catch, twisted into a frown; it was quickly replaced by him beaming yet again though, pulling his pack from over his shoulder and dropping it on the table, directly on top of Onmund’s open book, the air disturbing the dance of the candlelight. After rifling through his things, he plucked out a scrappy leather-bound and held it up in front of Onmund’s face. “Look here.”

“Is that..” Onmund blinked, turning his head to inspect it a bit better. “The Oghma Infinium? By the Nine, Aerion!”

“Thought it was a myth, right? I told you that I’d find it.” Aerion’s grin was mischievous, and he held the book up for inspection. “Kind of gross, though. That’s centuries old skin on here.”

“You should have told me where you were going.” Onmund pushed back his chair, standing abruptly and reaching out to catch it before it toppled over. He worked his bottom lip between his teeth, shaking his head.

“Why? So I could put your life in danger, too?” Aerion’s voice was fierce, a rare tenor on that accent.

“Look at you, Aerion. Five months you’re gone, and you come back with new scars and bruises. You’re putting yourself in danger when you need someone to watch your back.” Onmund worried a hand through his hair again, curling his fingers into the locks at the top of his head and tugging absentmindedly.

“I’m the Dragonborn, Onmund.” The crooked grin that Aerion attempted to crack was half-assed at most. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“You’re not immortal! Something could happen to you -- maybe you’d be bleeding out, or trapped somewhere, and nobody would know where you were. Please stop putting your life on the line.” His palm was warm when he slipped it across his tired face. “I couldn’t stay alright if something had happened to you. I thought something did.”

“You’re worried about me?” Aerion’s brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. This was a different atmosphere with him, something Onmund had possibly seen only once, and instantly he missed the man’s sunny disposition. Seeing him like this, it reminded Onmund this time that he was still mortal.

“Yeah.” His voice was weak to his own ears, cracking a little halfway through the word. “Yeah, I am. Watching you be gone for months like that with no word, well, it’s a bit nerve-wracking. You’ve become very important to me. The least that you could do is write now and then.”

“Important… like… savior of Skyrim important, or…” Aerion brought a hand up, tugging on his earlobe and looking down. “Or..”

Working his bottom lip between his teeth  and feeling his canines dig in, Onmund stepped forward to touch the man’s jaw and turn his face to press a kiss to his lips. It was sweet; he tasted like Jazbay grapes, his lips slightly chapped and chilly from the cold he’d just been in. Being this close in his space, well, he was doused in the musky smell of his soaps and the leather from the armor he wore on an almost constant when not at the College.

Onmund left it short -- long enough for Aerion to get his point and back out if he wanted to, but short enough for a first kiss shared between them, especially after such a thick discussion. He let his thumb graze across the Dragonborn’s bottom lip, before dropping his hand to grin coyly and rub the back of his neck, watching the red that touched Aerion’s freckled cheeks. “Important.”

“I see.” Aerion cleared his throat, smile returned when he touched his lips. “Has it always been like that?”

“Oh, come on. I’ve been pretty obvious.” Onmund chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the flip-flop of his stomach or the hammering of his heart in his ears. “Black Briar Mead late into the night, sitting in front of the fire and flirting? If you can’t even pick that one up, Aerion…”

“I never really liked people thinking I was important.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he grinned. “But I think I can make an exception for you.”


End file.
